Rage Against The Latrine Ch 03

In December, I wrote a short 3,000 word story about a female punk rock singer who urinated over a fan on stage, partially inspired by real-life events. I enjoyed the tale and played with the characters in my mind over the following days. I said I would write more chapters if there was positive feedback.

There was.

I had plenty of comments and the story fared well in the "scoring." So, I wrote more.

Out of principle, I never release a chapter until I have written and edited the entire book. But, four extra chapters became six, and then eight, and there are now two dozen chapters on my hard drive. Over 70,000 words of golden showers, female domination and absolute filth with a plethora of additional characters. It's about 80-90% finished. Mostly, it needs editing.

I hope to complete the entire story before Easter. But I didn't want everyone who asked for a continuation to wait any longer. I promised I'd write something in the weeks after the first chapter, and it's been nearly three months. So, here is the next instalment and I will release the remainder as they become ready.

If you have not read the previous chapters, then please do so, as the following story won't make much sense.

* * * * *

I hesitated as I crossed the plush dining room. I had paid the exorbitant fee to have breakfast in Natasha's expensive Victorian hotel and had asked to be seated away from the window. The hotelier had allocated the back corner of their restaurant to the band, and the flamboyant lead singer of the punk rock quintet noticed me being shown to my table by a smartly dressed waiter.

Natasha nudged Faye, and they sniggered; I blushed, ordered my food, and read my eBook. I felt the white heat of Natasha's glances and I ignored them; my eyes focused on the obscene text of a male submissive in a female-led cult. The well-cooked fare was delicious, and after the waiter had cleared my plate away, Natasha left her table with her glass of straw-coloured fluid and sat opposite me. "Here, have one of your five a day." She put the small tumbler of pale yellow liquid in front of me and smirked. "It's pineapple juice."

I knew what it was, and her eyes watched the well-dressed attendants cross the ornate dining room as I hesitated. "That's... piss?"

"Of course it fucking is. Skirt, no underwear. What the fuck did you fucking expect? I filled it up for you at the fucking table! When you've drunk it, we'll give you your fucking clothes back."

"Drink it in front of everyone?" I gulped as I glanced around the room. Families, Christmas shoppers, travellers, and businessmen surrounded us, but not a single person looked in our direction. We were anonymous.

"Of course, in front of everyone," the pink-haired coquette snapped. She leant back in the chair as I held the warm glass of pale yellow liquid. My hands trembled and her lips curled into a smirk. A malevolent smile as I winced. I smelt the harsh, acrid fluid, and my eyes watered. My prick swelled as I stared at her expectant gaze.

I took a deep breath, brought the acidic drink to my lips and gulped at her pee. My heart leapt and butterflies churned in my belly. The intense taste combined with the overpowering smell as the second and third gulps of the honey-coloured elixir scorched the inside of my throat and turned my stomach.

I took the final swig of her waste and put the empty juice glass on the table with a forceful bang. She grinned as I panted, taking large lungfuls of fresh air from the Victorian dining room. I gagged a little on the pungent taste and the astringent smell lingered on my breath and in my mouth as I drained the last of my Earl Grey tea.

"Good boy!" Natasha patronised, and rose from the table. "Faye will be down with your keks. But they might be a little wet."

Natasha had not lied; every single member of the band must have urinated on my clothes as the bag weighed twice as much and smelt horrendous. I hurried back to my hotel to pack my suitcase and return home. I messaged Natasha on the train to joke about the strange smell wafting around the carriage, and we struck up a conversation across social media's direct messaging. Every message made me smile, and underneath the punk rock persona was a normal, everyday wild chick. I may have become enchanted by her personality on stage, but the woman behind that mask was just as mesmerising.

A few days after the London concert, and after dozens of messages, she confided that her contract for self-storage had fallen through when the warehouse suffered a localised fire. With her lease expiring on her flat in Tottenham, it had forced Natasha to arrange for most of her possessions to go into storage before moving to Paula's sofa for a couple of weeks until Christmas.

"I have space here, if you want," I offered. "I have a house to myself. It's near to Chorleywood." A smiley emoji followed this message, and my heart pounded as I wondered if I had gone too far. Perhaps the super-fan had strayed across an unspoken and unwritten boundary? My fingers hesitated over the chat window and I put my phone in the drawer so I could join a conference call. Never had I been so distracted; I desperately wanted to check my app, but I resisted until the end of the working day.

"You fucking sure?" Natasha asked, and then added. "Can we come see on Saturday?"

"Of course," I replied with my heart pounding, and spent the week by counting down the days to Saturday. Even my work colleagues teased me as I seemed "excited" about the weekend.

Faye and Natasha arrived before lunchtime in Faye's twenty-year-old scarlet Mini hatchback, splashed with mud from the lanes. The pink-haired woman swore at me as she exited the car. "You fucking live in the middle of fucking nowhere!" The lead singer called.

Faye smiled and gestured to my sprawling Edwardian property. "Nice gaffe, John!"

"Thanks!" I made them a drink, and showed them around the four-bedroom house I used to share with my ex-girlfriend. Natasha gasped as she walked into my office. On the longest wall and above my desk was all my memorabilia from Bitches Against. All seven album covers, framed tour tickets and signed photographs. In the centre of the display was an unwashed white T-shirt that Natasha had urinated over when she hauled me on stage, encased in a sealed frame. "Wow!"

"You don't get to run the fan club if you don't like the band," I muttered.

"All the pictures, John. The signed photos and artwork. They're all of me."

I blushed a new shade of scarlet. "That one up there," I showed, pointing to a small photograph of the five members of the group. "That's all of you. And that one over there is just Faye."

She put her hand in mine and smiled. "I've never thought that anyone would be like this with us."

"Your music is fantastic," I replied. "All of you are amazing. And you are the most talented, fabulous singer."

"You only say that because she pees on you!" Faye joked from the doorway.

I looked away, but Natasha didn't stop holding my hand until we were in the garden. I gestured to the extensive building beside my cobbled driveway. "That's a converted barn. The previous owner had wanted to build an annexe, so they put a new roof on, damp coursed it, insulation, heating, second floor, and so on. Granny was going to move in, but then she kicked the bucket before she could and I've not done anything with it. But if you need a large space to store stuff, that's empty."

I swivelled my keys on my finger as we meandered across to the other building on my property. The thirty-foot long room was chilly and echoed. Faye opened the door to the installed bathroom. "It's half-done. You've got half a kitchenette and a whole toilet, but no shower."

"I know. It's dead space. I just haven't needed it, but in the New Year, I'm getting some fitness equipment. I had thought about finishing it and renting it out, but my ex objected. There is a gym that's closed down in Tring and I've bought some of the gear, so some of it will be my home gym."

Faye nodded and then gestured around her. "I live with my mum and my sister and our entire flat is smaller that this room." I know she didn't mean to, but it made me feel guilty, and I said nothing until we were outside in the weak winter sunshine.

"There's a pub half-a-mile down the road. Let me get you lunch? They do some wonderful grub."

"Does it come with a beer?" Natasha asked.

I shook my head. "No, sorry." She scowled at me. "For you, it comes with several!" Faye sniggered.

"That's a fucking shame. Because if I drink too much, I fucking end up pissing on dirty, kinky men," Natasha replied.

"It's a risk I will take," I joked, and Natasha held my hand as we walked down Plough Lane to the centre of the sprawling village. It took about fifteen minutes, but the public house was the heart of the community life and the young waitress raised a smile as the two flamboyant rockers entered the tavern behind me. We seated ourselves near the crackling open hearth fire that glowed and sparkled.

Once the punk goddesses had selected from the menu, I ordered at the bar, opting for a pint of each of their three beers and two ciders on tap for my pink-haired friend. Faye, as the driver, could only have a single vodka and diet cola, but Natasha had several drinks. She grinned when the young waitress brought them to our table.

"I'll be pissing like a fucking horse!" Natasha moaned as she took a sip of the dark brown bitter. "I got several boxes of stuff to dump in storage. If I hire a van, could I stick them in your annexe. That place is fucking safe, isn't it?"

"Sure. No-one ever goes in there. I just check it once a week and flush the toilet to stop it from drying up."

"It'll only be until I can get a flat or storage sorted," she promised, but I shrugged off her assurances. It didn't matter. The freshly prepared lunches were amazing - as ever - and the rural eatery impressed the two ladies. We had to wait for Natasha to finish her five drinks, so Faye had a couple of non-alcoholic drinks and I had another pint of IPA. We didn't want to leave our seats in front of the cosy fire, but after an hour and half inside the inn, we left, and walked back up the hill towards my isolated house.

"I gotta pee!" Natasha moaned, with a twinkle in her eye. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"No, I just know how much you like your booze!" She staggered as she walked, tipsy as they groaned, walking up the incline on the single track road. We passed a small cottage. "That's where Nathan, the guy who I caught with my ex, lives," I muttered. Natasha said nothing, but put her hand in mine as we stumbled up the narrow country lane and by the time we reached my cobbled drive, the punk rocker had a glint in her eye. She ordered me to take off my jacket. "Oh, are you..."

"Fuck yes!" she squealed. I placed my coat containing my wallet, phone and keys on the outdoor bench beside my front door, and Natasha pushed me onto the damp, soft grass. I stared up at her, standing over me. She inched her trousers to her mid-thigh and squatted over my face, revealing her hairless pussy once more.

She groaned as the first few drops of her piss landed on me. The warm liquid splashed over my hair and my face and then she fired a forceful jet of her pale, tepid pee against my closed lips.

I instinctively opened them, filling my mouth with her bladder juice. Far less intense in smell and flavour, the nasty liquid danced with a filthy piquancy. It was rough, disgusting, revolting, but so pleasurable. It tasted of harsh acidity and I smelt of her waste, but I didn't want that moment to stop.

My T-Shirt soaked with the contents of her bladder as she sighed in relief. Several pints of alcohol drained over my face and my body in the centre of my secluded lawn. Every breath reeked of Natasha's acrid pee, while my stiff cock loved the humiliation.

It was degradation once more. An indignity and a debasement, and I adored it. "Natasha!" Faye moaned, but I could hardly hear her complaint. I felt movement beside me and a second jet of hot liquid landed on my waist, soaking into my trousers. The slender woman, in bright carmine pigtails, had followed her lead singer, and evacuated her bladder over me.

They giggled. They laughed. Natasha taunted. But I loved it. Two sexy punk rockers had each given me a golden shower, and I was dancing around my idea of heaven. The damp clothes quickly turned cold in the December air and soaked through to the skin. Then, I did something I had not done as an adult; I released the burning pressure on my bladder and I deliberately wet myself, fully clothed.

As Faye emptied on my trousers and boxer shorts, I did the same.

Part of me felt that I could have waited until I made it to a bathroom, but the instant warmth as the piss touched my skin was addictive. The humiliation of wetting myself radiated as the liquid soaked through into my underwear and my Jeans. Condensation rose from my crotch in the cold air like steam from a kettle.

Faye sighed as her stream slowed to a dribble, and Natasha pulled her trousers to her waist, removing the wonderful sight of her shaved pussy. "Better undress before you go inside. We've soaked you a bit," Faye told me responsibly.

Natasha beamed as I undressed in the swirling chilly wind; the wet clothes clung to my body as the smell of three kinds of piss filled the air. I felt disgusting and shivered as my hands trembled with the keys.

Faye photographed me as I stood naked in front of the two rockers. A further embarrassment after the antics of the previous fortnight. I rushed upstairs to shower and covered my skin in Mint Soap. The musicians sat at my dining table and when I returned to them a few minutes later in my fluffy dressing gown, they were getting ready to leave. "You off?" I asked. Faye nodded. "OK, see you next Saturday. About ten?"

Natasha smiled at me. "Thanks. I'll see you next Saturday."

"You know, if you wanted to move into my spare room too, you are welcome too." She wiped her mouth. "The Met Line station is three miles away. London is 45 minutes. You said it's a big house. There's room, Natasha. If you want it."

"And how fucking much? What would you want in return? I wouldn't be able to fucking afford it, John! And I'm not a charity..."

"I want nothing," I interrupted. She shook her head as two pairs of eyes bored into me. I felt silly and desperate. "Really, I would not want a thing." I sighed. "You make me feel fantastic when you are around me. OK, I love it when you are dominant, but I like you. You're a special person and I feel alive around you. This isn't a sexual or a relationship thing, but sometimes it's lonely being on your own and I would genuinely love to have someone to come home and cook for, and argue about toilet seats with. Watch television with. There are spare rooms, and one of them has an en-suite. If you want to stay while you sort yourself out, it's yours. And your company is payment enough, a hundred times over."

She gulped and wiped her eyes. "You fucking bastard. You fucking made me teary."

"No strings attached. It's up to you. You don't even need to pee on me!"

Natasha smiled as she laughed. "Yeah, but I fucking love pissing on men." She looked at Faye, who gave her a troubled expression. "Thanks for the offer. I'll think about it and let you know. It's too fucking generous."

I nodded, feeling that I had been too forthright. "Sure, have a safe journey," I replied and watched as the wonderful women left my abode, stepping over my pile of piss-soaked clothing as they left.

I had some washing to do.